


To love a Voldemort

by Ingi



Series: Author's Favorites [4]
Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Apologies to the Wranglers, Belle (Disney) Is Hermione Granger's Ancestor, Cogsworth And Lumiere Are Gay Soulmates, Crack, Curses, Disney Parody, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Minor Cogsworth/Lumiere (Disney), Slash: Romance Without Boundaries, Time Travel, Transfigured Death Eaters, Wizards Cogsworth And Lumiere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-19 17:30:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11318223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ingi/pseuds/Ingi
Summary: "You can be redeemed,as I was saying," and here Cogsworth glares pointedly at Lumiere, "but for that you must fall in love and be loved in return.""I mustwhat?" Voldemort startles."But we don't have all century, so there's a time limit," Lumiere adds, scowling. "In your private chambers, we've left a charmed corpse flower. To fit with the theme, you know," it says, wriggling its eyebrows. "When it blooms, and the lovely rotten-flesh smell spreads everywhere, you will all be stuck like thisforever."





	To love a Voldemort

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ioana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ioana/gifts).



> Why, you might ask, _WHY_.  
>  And the answer would be, IT WAS ALL IOANA'S FAULT. Plz take all complaints to her. ([Here's](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u0K-cHESi1c) the terrible video she forced me to watch and that inspired the whole thing.)

Voldemort has spent a long, long time in this castle.

Maybe even an entire _week_. Frankly, he cannot be blamed if he was so bored that he _Incendioed_ the coat rack. Twice. At least it provided some entertainment while it burned, even if it was only by screaming _Lucius, I'm Lucius, my Lord, your most faithful servant!_ the entire time.

"Pike!" Voldemort calls, in this fine morning.

The coat rack cautiously approaches, silver scarfs flowing in the breeze like well-groomed hair.

"Lucius, my Lord," it insists, but Voldemort bats it away.

"Lucius, Luce, or Pike, it's of no matter to me," he huffs. "Have you found Cogsworth and Lumiere?"

Voldemort is sure they have actual names, too, but as it is, he cares even less about those than he cares about Pike's. Those sleazy, meddling wizards were the ones who trapped him in this castle and gave him this- this- this _face_ , if it can even be called that. It suffices to say, to understand the gravity of the situation, that the castles used to have mirrors before Voldemort personally smashed them and dramatically left the glass shards spreaded everywhere. Voldemort, breaking _mirrors_.

Even a newborn knows that, while there are very few mirrors that actually give bad luck when broken, it's better not to risk it. Plus, mirrors! _Mirrors_. Voldemort doesn't remember much of his life before this castle, but there's this certainty in his soul that he used to _love_ mirrors, because of course he did, he used to be _beautiful_.

And now he's trapped in this dusty castle, with his memory in tangles and a bunch of talking household items that like to call themselves _Death Eaters_ as his only company. Oh, and the mangy dog that he keeps locked outside.

Before him, the coat rack seems to demurely shift its weight from one foot to the other.

"I did, my Lord, but-" it coughs. "They appear to be- otherwise occupied."

"Snogging in all corners of the castle again, are they?" Voldemort hisses. "Where this time?"

"Last time I saw, my Lord, they were in the kitchen counter. Amycus is furious, and you know that when Amycus is furious, he starts fighting with Alecto, and Corban keeps complaining about how disturbing it is to watch a strainer and a grater wrestle, my Lord, and-"

Voldemort waves it away and _Apparates_ into the kitchen, because one can never waste the opportunity to instir some pure terror in the metallic hearts of one's cutlery.

"Cogsworth! Lumiere!" he bellows, very lord-like. Oh, what he wouldn't give to have an appropiate companion by his side, something like- a snake, a snake would be perfect. A pity all the ones in his garden are too small to be intimidating, no matter how beseechingly that one tiny corn snake always stares at him. "Are you yet _done_ swapping spit?"

The candelabra and the clock stop the rather impressive feat of snogging in their current forms and stare at Voldemort. At least Cogsworth has the decency to look vaguely embarrassed.

"Why, here's He-Whose-Name-Must-Be-Hyphenated!" Lumiere says, winking at him. "Murdered anyone in cold blood lately? Oh, right, you _can't_."

"You're having too much fun with this," Cogsworth chides. "This is supposed to be _punishment_."

"Yes, but not for _me_!" Lumiere sing-songs. "Well, well, Moldy Voldy, what brings you here to interrupt our very important businesses?"

Voldemort is, above all, a diplomatic, so he refrains from laughing out loud.

"What _is_ this curse?" he hisses. "And how am I supposed to break it?"

Lumiere rolls its eyes, stepping back with a bow. Cogsworth clears its throat, preens, and starts its speech in what it surely believes is a mighty voice.

"You, oh Voldemort, for the crimes commited against the Wizarding and the Muggle world, have been cursed and sent back in time to before the Statute of Secrecy. You have been stripped of your memories, your power, and your name. But-" it exchanges a glance with Lumiere, who looks displeased, "you can be redeemed. And your old followers with you, if we deem it proper."

" _Hah_ ," Lumiere says, under its breath, and Voldemort can't help but agree.

"You can be redeemed, _as I was saying_ ," and here Cogsworth glares pointedly at Lumiere, "but for that you must fall in love and be loved in return."

"I must _what_?" Voldemort startles.

"But we don't have all century, so there's a time limit," Lumiere adds, scowling. "In your private chambers, we've left a charmed corpse flower. To fit with the theme, you know," it says, wriggling its eyebrows. "When it blooms, and the lovely rotten-flesh smell spreads everywhere, you will all be stuck like this _forever_."

"And you?" Voldemort asks, because he might've been trapped here for a long time but he still remembers that wizards aren't supposed to look like household items.

"Oh, we like roleplay, but not _that_ much," Lumiere dismisses. "We'll just change back and ditch you."

"You little-"

"According to our investigations, tomorrow will come the father of the witch who might- errr-"

"Look past how ugly and annoying you are, somehow," Lumiere picks up, deadpan. "You might want to convince the father to bring her here and let you woo her. How you do that is none of our concern. It's not like you and your walking circus can do much harm now."

"My walking _what_?" Voldemort says.

It's the first one on a long list of questions, threats, and yelling he needs to do, but Lumiere has pulled Cogsworth back to snogging and Voldemort _does not want_ to stay for that, so he resigns himself for the moment.

 

* * *

 

The next day, there's a knock on the door.

Immediately after, the dog in the garden starts barking.

"Pike, go get the door," Voldemort says, absently, from where he's sprawled on the divan, thumbing through a book on highbrow recipes. "And make the mutt shut up."

"Lucius, my Lord," the coat rack reminds him weakly. "And I will send someone to scold Greyback immediately, do not fear."

But by the time it gets to the door, the dog has stopped barking. The knocking, on the other hand, is more urgent. Voldemort hears the door opening, but doesn't bother to look until he hears a very irritated woman voice speaking.

"Is that a magical breed of dog? I'd assume so, since it seems to know I've just _Silencioed_ it. Just how many regulations are you going to break in this castle? And a sentient coat rack, for Merlin's sake! I very much doubt you're registered anywhere. Where's your master?"

There are two things that are excepcionally clear in Voldemort's mind right now: one, only approved visitors can walk through the castle's door, and two, that woman is very obviously not his future wife's father. Which leaves only one option. She's his _future wife_.

Voldemort is seriously considering kicking her out and staying as he is forever.

"Come on in, Miss," he finally says, in a growl. "Since you seem so hell-bent on doing so either way."

A short witch with bushy hair appears in his visual field. She's holding her wand out, pointed at the piece of parchment floating before her, and a quill is doing its very best to write fast enough to surpass the speed of light.

"Thank you," she replies, and then she actually looks at him and all blood seems to leave her face. She politely drags her gaze away after a few seconds. "Uh- Uhm- Good morning, mister-"

" _Lord_ Voldemort."

"Yes, yes, alright," she sighs. "I'm Belle Wilkins, and I work for the Department of-"

"That's not important," Voldemort interrupts her, gritting his teeth. There's no one else, so she'll have to do. "Would you care for a cup of tea? Pike, go make a cup of tea for miss Wilkins!"

"Well, I'd say it _is_ important, Lord Voldemort," she replies, incensed. "As the owner of this piece of land, you have several responsibilites, none of which you're fulfilling! In your woods, there's a werewolf commune that is living in the wild despite your legal need to keep them locked inside your castle, you have an unregistered magical breed of dog, no one has informed the Ministry of your experiments with sentient coat racks-"

As she talks, the quill frantically tries to keep up. Voldemort observes it for a while, bored. Now, the matter is- how to trap her, how to trap her... Not to mention, how to get her to _shut up_. That's a vital matter.

A smile slowly starts spreading through his face. Miss Wilkins takes a step back.

"Welcome to my humble home, miss Wilkins- Belle, if I may," Voldemort says, and with a wave of his wand, a rose comes flying from his garden.

He offers it to her. Belle stares it down. Then she looks up to Voldemort's face, seems to regret it, looks back down, and scowls.

"I'm allergic," she says, coldly. "And that, Lord Voldemort, is a reverse Portkey, one that anchors the receiver to wherever they are at the moment until the maker of it decides to release them."

"Oh, is it?" Voldemort asks, throwing the rose over his shoulder and trying his best to pretend innocence. He bats his eyelashes a little, too, for effect, but then he remembers he _doesn't_ have eyelashes. Or eyelids. Or any hair at all. Or a _nose_. Oh, how he misses his nose. "Well, thank Merlin you've noticed, dear Belle!" He turns towards the kitchen. " _Pike_! Where's that tea?!"

"You know what, nevermind," Belle huffs, _Vanishing_ the parchment and quill. "They don't pay me enough to deal with- _this_. The Ministry will send another functionary soon, I'm sure."

"You can't leave!" Voldemort yells.

Belle raises her eyebrows so high that Voldemort wouldn't be surprised if they started floating away on their own. He can hear the unspoken _do tell why, I dare you_ , but the truth is, he doesn't know what to say. This has never happened before! But of course, before Voldemort had a name, had _power_. The most he could do now would be stick her feet to the floor and hope she doesn't know the counterspell. Or is in the habit of carrying acetone around.

But then Voldemort's luck changes. Which, really, it was time already! Belle's expression shifts into pure wonder, and she steps further into the castle, stilling right over the spot where Voldemort remembers appearing a week ago.

"There's a time anomaly _right here_!" she says excitedly. "It's all over the castle, really, but it's particularly strong here, and it's obviously not a product of a Time Turner or a charm or- Ohh, I've never seen anything like it!"

"If you'd like to stay and investigate it further, Belle," Voldemort says, sugary-sweet, "you'd be _most welcome_."

The castle awaits for her answer in expectant silence. Literally. Each one of Voldemort's old followers, as the annoying wizards called them, are for once being very good household items and staying still and quiet. Blessedly still and quiet. Voldemort could very well live in this frozen moment forever.

"Sure, sure," Belle replies, distracted, as she kneels on the floor to wave her wand over the floorboards.

And, to top it off, Pike finally reappears with two cups of perfectly brewed tea. Voldemort takes one, sprawls seductively in the divan, and watches Belle doing whatever it is she's doing.

Take that, world. Voldemort _wins_.

 

* * *

 

It's been two weeks, and Belle seems to have developed quite a skill in ignoring anything that isn't her precious time anomaly.

She's less than impressed by Voldemort ordering everyone around, offering her the most exquisite bites of dinner, and showing off his castle, which are all of a wizard's seduction moves in a nutshell. The only time he got a reaction was when he showed her the library. The sounds she made certainly rivalled the ones that come from Cogsworth and Lumiere's rendez-vous.

And that got Voldemort thinking. Well, thinking in one thing in particular, because Voldemort _is_ already in the habit of thinking daily, unlike what happens with most of his current companions. But the point is, Belle Wilkins is _reasonably attractive_ , apart from clever and powerful, which Voldemort infers from her investigations about the time anomaly; they have scorched the room and any talking item that got too close more than once, but Belle remains unharmed _and_ unfazed, and that's something Voldemort can admire in a witch.

So the only problem that remains is a trifle, really, almost negligible: making her fall in love with him. Oddly enough, it's the part that's giving him the most trouble.

"Cogsworth! Lumiere!" he finally yells one day, because it's imprescindible to do so unless he wants to stumble headfirst into a scene he'd have to _Memory Charm_ himself out of seeing later. When he finds the wizards, this time sullying one of the benches of his garden, he lets out a roar that would scare away a dragon. "Why did you have to make me so _ugly_?"

They stare at him in stunned silence. At first, Voldemort thinks he's managed to intimidate them, which would certainly be a novelty and greatly improve his mood. That impression only lasts until Lumiere bursts into laughter, Cogsworth trying to muffle its own chuckles behind its hands.

"He thinks- he thinks _we_ did that!" Lumiere guffaws.

"Who else?" Voldemort replies, incensed. "Have you _seen_ it? I've got. No. Nose!"

"Maybe you ran into the wrong wall at King's Cross," Lumiere manages to say, wheezing. "Maybe- maybe Peeves got your nose!"

"Maybe you dived too deep in Dark magic and did this to yourself," Cogsworth suggests, deadpan.

Voldemort would dismiss it, but Cogsworth is, in fact, not particularly given to jokes. Behind it, Lumiere offers Voldemort its widest and most disturbing grin. So Voldemort, with great poise and dignity, reacts accordingly to the revelation.

He _screams_.

"My beauty!" he laments, horrified. "My infamous enchanting beauty! _Why_?"

"Because you loved power more than anything else," Cogsworth, who clearly doesn't understand what a retorical question is, replies.

And they stare at him, expectant, and Voldemort realizes that this moment reeks of _let's-all-learn-a-moral_ mood, but frankly, he has no time or energy to try to figure out which, and these ridiculous wizards keep being cryptic. Beauty _is_ power! And now Voldemort has nothing, _nothing_ \- Wait, is his cape billowing in a sufficiently brooding and elegant way as he exits the room? Yes, yes it is. Alright then.

The problem of complex cape movements is that sometimes, they reduce visibilty. It's not usually concerning to Voldemort, who considers, quite rightly, that there's not much at all to see that is particularly exciting, unless it involves himself. But today the world is clearly taking its revenge on Voldemort.

A very familiar coat rack jumps in his way.

Everything seems to go in slow motion. Voldemort trips, smacking his pinky toe, at the very same instant Belle appears in the doorstep. She looks distracted, and then startled, and then Voldemort can't see what she looks like anymore because he's too busy falling flat on his face. It's almost lucky he doesn't have a nose, because he would've _wrecked it_.

"Oh," Belle says, under her breath.

What Voldemort says can't and shouldn't be reproduced, _under any circunstances_. It suffices to mention that all the flowers in the castle's garden suddenly wilt, several religious symbols in the nearby fifty miles burst into flames, and a good bunch of people find themselves rudely disturbed in the afterlife.

Ten minutes later, Voldemort is being all regal in his divan while Belle fusses over him, nursing what he's taken to dub his _battle wounds_. Well, bloodshed and pain were indeed involved after Voldemort recovered enough, so there. And the coat rack is now sporting a particularly unflattering hot dog hat until further notice, or rather, _Lucius_ , since Voldemort has learnt calling it by that name prevents it from pretend this is not happening to it.

"Dearest Belle, I thank you for your efforts," Voldemort sighs, glancing coyly at her. "But I'm afraid there are things not even your rather impressive healing charms are able to fix."

He knows he doesn't need to gesture at his face for Belle to understand. It still stings when her gaze is immediately drawn there. Voldemort scowls, but Belle's expression is- dare he say, _fond_?

"Aww, don't be like that," she hums, casting yet another charm at his pinky toe. "It's not that bad. It's- eh, charming. You look a bit like a snake," she adds, perking up. Her smile is blinding, and Voldemort blinks irritably. "And I _was_ a Slytherin, so... it's alright."

"A Slytherin," Voldemort repeats.

A slow, delighted smile, not unlike the Grinch's, starts spreading across his face.

 

* * *

 

Belle, leaning against Voldemort's chest in the divan, barely even stirs at the furious knocking on the door.

"Corban, could you get it?" she says to the enormous, distastefully ostentous wardrove that rests against the nearby wall, in that extremely polite tone that always sends Voldemort's old followers scuttering to obey.

It's _very_ satisfying.

The wardrove returns soon enough, and Voldemort gets the impression that it'd be nervously rubbing its hands together if it could.

"Uh, my Lord, miss Wilkins- There's a- uhh, a crowd of-"

"Admirers?" Voldemort suggests. He's distracted taking on the impossible task of braiding Belle's hair into something manageable, since it seems impervious to spells of any kind. "Worshipers? Our most humble servants?"

"Uhhh, no, my Lord. It seems to be- well, a furious muggle mob."

"A flash mob?" Voldemort asks, after considering it for a second. He only receives blank expressions and silence in response, so he assumes it's as close as a _no_ as he's going to get. "Then what do they _want_?"

"If- if the torches and pitchforks are to be believed, my Lord, nothing we should give them."

"Let them in," Belle replies, stretching like a cat.

"Why not just set Greyback on them?" Voldemort suggests instead, because unlike his future wife, he's not against _fun_.

"Oh, you know why," Belle says, turning towards him. "There has been an increase in muggle-to-wizard violence in the last few years, and as a Ministry functionary and witch, I have the duty to-"

"Let them in!" Voldemort yells, before she can keep going.

A group of muggles in horribly outdated clothes steps into the room, carrying the most pitiful-looking weapons Voldemort has seen in his life. He curls his lips in distaste in their direction and they start shaking. Of all the furious mobs, and they sent him this utterly pathetic one. _Him_. He deserves _quality_!

"Do not fear, milady!" a woman proclaims, wielding her torch with pride. "We'll kill the monster and set you free!"

"Aren't you the ones who tried to set Melissa Prewett on fire last Friday?" Belle asks, scowling.

"Well, there aren't many monster-lynching mobs left," the woman replies. She lowers her eyes, as if ashamed. "We're mostly a wizard-lynching mob, but we have to branch out on demand."

Belle takes a deep breath and sets off on what will probably become her longest lecture to date. Voldemort casts a timekeeping charm, distracted, while he mentally begins writing his letter of complaint to the furious mobs' syndicate.

"What _is_ that smell?" Belle suddenly says, horrified, an indeterminate quantity of time later.

Forty seven minutes, the timekeeping charm points out. Voldemort is impressed despite himself, and apparently, so was the mob, if their empty room is any indication. There are some pitchforks and other varied weapons laying around; the muggles clearly didn't bother picking them up on their way out, but Voldemort doesn't blame them, as running at top speed while carrying those things _must_ be inconvenient.

And, now that he notices, there _is_ a foul smell permeating the air. It's only that is rather hard to pick up on it when one doesn't have a goddarned _nose_. Yes, he's still bitter about that.

Voldemort's first suspect is that Greyback dog, but then he _remembers_.

"The corpse flower," he hisses.

"What?" Belle startles. One of her hands is firmly covering her nose, and the other is furiously casting charms left and right, trying to dissipate the smell to no avail. "I- I'm not one to criticize anyone's gardening choices, but- Oh, Merlin, make it _stop_ ," she begs.

"I can't!" Voldemort huffs, because if there's something he hates it's admitting there are things beyond his control. "It's a curse! It robbed me of my name and my power and- and my beauty!" he adds, slyly. "But you, dearest Belle, you can stop this," he says, taking her hands in his own. She stares at him, wide-eyed and desperate. "You only have to say you love me. Quick, before it gets worse!"

"It can get _worse_?" Belle says, aghast. Voldemort nods, because well, getting stuck as he is right now would definitely be worse than some rotting-flesh smell he can barely pick up anyway. "I love you! _I love you_!" she screams.

It starts as a slow tickle of magic, accumulating all around them like grease in a potion master's hair. Then Voldemort blinks, and suddenly, he has _eyelashes_. He releases Belle's hands and frantically pats his face, finding hair and a _nose_ too! What luxury, what delight!

"My name," Voldemort roars, raising his arms into the sky and cackling, "is _Tom Riddle_!" After a second, he lowers his arms again with a scowl. "Tom. _Tom_... How utterly plebeian."

"Why, _hello_ , Tom," Belle says, beaming.

She's clearly enthralled by his new face, as she should. Voldemort- _Tom_ preens, just a little, and the grin doesn't leave his face even when a very familiar voice rumbles out of nowhere.

"Tom Riddle," Cogsworth's incorporeal voice says, grandilocuent as always, "your curse has been broken by the power of love-"

"Or pestilence, in any case," Lumiere's also rumbling, but still recognizable chirpy voice adds. "We should have taken that into account."

"You're free," Cogsworth continues. "We will take our leave now, but the question that remains- should your followers' curse be broken as well?"

Dozens of pleading, expectant gazes fix themselves on Voldemort.

"What?" Voldemort startles. "No! I'd have to get real servants then!"

"It _is_ true that we won't have much time to hold any job interviews, with all the planning for the wedding," Belle muses out loud. "Did they do something horrible?" she asks Voldemort, sounding hopeful.

"Oh, _definitely_."

He's not even lying. No one in this goddarned castle ever manages not to burn his morning porridge, and there's also, of course, that matter of the coat rack maiming his pinky toe, and the strainer and the grater that never stop fighting, and- Really, Voldemort should just release them into the wild and find some house elves. They might be creepy, but they'd be way less trouble.

"Well-" Belle says. "I guess it'd be alright if they stayed, then."

A beat of silence.

"Fair enough," Lumiere's voice says, with an almost visible shrug.

And then the voices are gone, their magical pressence leaving the castle for what Voldemort really hopes is forever, and everything is _perfect_. The coat rack does start sobbing, but well, that's easy enough to ignore.

On their wedding day, they receive a small box with matching silver rings. They are shaped like corpse flowers. Voldemort throws them into Belle's flaming cocktail without even reading the note attached, and goes back to pretending he's paying attention to the speech a very tearful leader of the furious mobs' syndicate is giving.

And they live _happily ever after_. Unlike everyone else involved.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to make a Lucius=pike fish joke, but then I realized we call those fishes "Lucio" in Spain but not anywhere else, so... Voldy made a wordplay with the old name for fully-grown pikes (luces) and/or the Latin name (Esox lucius), okay? Leave me be. (And there are muggle references because Voldy _is_ a halfblood. That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it!)  
>  Also, the lack of French accent in "Lumiere" is bothering me like you wouldn't imagine.  
> EDIT: This now has a sequel/spin-off! [If you wait for a cake to be given to you](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11575572)


End file.
